as ever, with her clouds of raven curls and her sultry dark-blue eyes. She was younger than both of them. Then she said, in her silken voice that bore the allure of her Italian heritage, ‘Stephen. Alec. I’ve just been told that your father is ill.’
‘It’s nothing serious,’ said Stephen. ‘Rest assured.’
‘I will go up, then, to see him …’
Stephen strode forwards. ‘I will come with you.’
‘No. Best if I see him by myself.’
Alec had already turned to go. But he became aware that she was following him out on to the palatial landing above the staircase, where they were, momentarily, alone. The faint scent of gardenias clung to her skin and hair.
‘Alec,’ she said, ‘my dear, please will you speak with me one moment before I go up to your father?’ Her delicate gloved fingers were touching his arm. ‘It’s been so long since we spoke. I’m sad, because you used to be at every society gathering. You are missed,’ she added softly.
‘Do you know,’ he said in a curt voice, ‘I find that London society doesn’t appeal to me very much at the moment. Susanna, my father wants to go to Carrfields.’
The colour left her cheeks. ‘Carrfields! But he promised me—’
‘I take it,’ Alec cut in, ‘that you’ll go with him? Stephen, by the way, is staying in London.’
She hesitated. Then, ‘Of course I will go.’
With a tight bow, he turned to leave, but she caught again at his arm. ‘My dear, I so wish we could be friends again! And I’m sorry about the Bedford Street house. I told your father that my mother wished for a residence in London. But I didn’t realise you would be made homeless!’
‘Didn’t you?’ This time he couldn’t help the bitterness showing through. ‘Believe me, that’s the least of my worries.’
Her eyes were clouded. ‘What can I do, to redeem myself?’ she murmured. ‘Alec, I am not happy, you must know that. I am not, if it’s of any consolation to you, in the slightest bit proud of myself.’
‘I think you know, Susanna, what you ought to do. Whether you do it or not is entirely up to you. You have a better side. Use it.’ Alec gave a curt bow and left.
She watched him go down the vast staircase that swept to the entrance hall below. Stephen had come out of the drawing room and was looking at her.
‘Carrfields,’ he said. ‘How will you bear it?’
‘It seems,’ she answered, ‘as if I must.’
And she went upstairs, to visit her husband.
Shortly afterwards, Lord Stephen Maybury went back to his house in Brook Street and spoke to the man with the scarred forehead. ‘Well, Markin? Did you do as I ordered?’
‘Hire a couple of ruffians to wreck the printing press that produced that foul stuff about Lady Aldchester? Aye, my lord. And there’s more. The fair-haired piece from the Temple of Beauty that you asked me to follow last night—turns out she lives there, as well! She’s some kind of writer!’
And Stephen’s narrow green eyes widened.
He had been absolutely enraged to see the way Susanna looked at Alec out there on the landing. The way she had agreed, in spite of all her earlier protestations about hating the country, to go with his father to Carrfields.
Was she tiring of her secret games with Stephen?
Now, though, the blonde girl from the Temple of Beauty drove everything from his mind. If there was a connection, with the other one from three years ago, he needed to shut the girl up. And fast.
The next two weeks were blighted by the blustery rain of late March and the leaden skies reflected Helen’s mood of despair. ‘I’ll never feel safe again. Oh, Rosalie, who could have done such a thing?’
‘The constables are hunting the culprits,’ Rosalie soothed her as she brought her a cup of tea. ‘Why not start writing again? You have a gift for it and for teaching. I’ll never forget how you inspired us in the village school, about art and history. You opened up a new world to me, Helen.’
Helen gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘You had a hunger for learning anyway. Every book I brought to you, you used to devour. When I took you all to that art gallery in Oxford, I could hardly tear you away!’
‘My father was an artist, remember?’ Rosalie sat down next to her on the little sofa. ‘I think I hoped there might be some paintings there by him. Of course, there weren’t. But I looked, and looked—so foolish of me!’
Helen gazed at her. ‘Oh, I’d no idea … Rosalie, you must have missed him so!’
‘Always,’ said Rosalie quietly. ‘I was so young when he died. But I never forgot him.’ She tried to smile again. ‘Do you remember how on the way back from Oxford, I wouldn’t stop asking you questions about everything we’d seen? How you put up with me, I can’t imagine. Seriously, Helen, I know you feel dreadful, but how about writing again? Stories, poetry, anything!’
Helen shook her head. ‘I worry far too much to write. I still feel as though I’m being watched.’
Rosalie shivered, because sometimes she felt the same. But aloud she said resolutely, ‘Nonsense! Biddy’s brothers are close by, remember—and you have such loyal friends. Do please try to stop worrying.’
‘Oh, Rosalie. You are being so good to me.’
‘Not as good as you’ve been to me, Helen,’ answered Rosalie quietly.
And she felt a liar and a hypocrite. All of this is my fault. I drew down the wrath of Alec Stewart upon you.
The constables, she privately thought, would be doing very little about Helen’s wrecked press; you needed money and influence to stir the forces of law into action. Who else but Alec Stewart would have set his men to do this vile deed? He had left that note to warn Rosalie to be quiet about his exploitation of those poor soldiers. What would he do if he knew that Linette had whispered his name as she lay dying?
It was up to her to confront him. But how could she, secure as he was in his castle of rogues?
At least Rosalie had been right to assure Helen that she did indeed have friends, because Francis Wheeldon, the kind churchwarden who lived in nearby St John’s Square, called round almost daily; one afternoon he asked Helen if she would write some articles about the history of Clerkenwell for the parish magazine.
Rosalie had seen Helen’s face brighten with interest, and tactfully she had left them alone, taking Katy and Toby to the Green to play in the spring sunshine. She liked Francis. Quite a few years older than Helen, he lived with his spinster sister and was a scholarly, gentle man.
Indeed,
